


Letters From Poseidon

by ladyofstardvst



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cute things, and its NICE he deserves NICE THINGS, and youre one of them, literally just bucky realizing he isnt! a complete dumpster fire!, minor? angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 09:37:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18443888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofstardvst/pseuds/ladyofstardvst
Summary: a lovely afternoon where bucky realizes you mean all the nice things you say about him and he realizes how much he means to you. like, poetically.





	Letters From Poseidon

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written for bucky in my LIFE but I gotta start somewhere right

He thought you were the sea.

Your whole being sang with beauty and grace. You held a comfort, a _calm_ that could only be disturbed by the most intense occasions, and he really did _not_ want to see what kind of oceanic _travesty_ you wreaked on the poor soul that ruined your serenity. Because of that, he was a little fearful of your potential, some days, but it was always smothered into silence when he caught the glint of crested waves in heart-stopping shades of midnight blue and cerulean and deep sea green when the sunshine reflected your beauty back into the unworthy sights of mankind.

Though while he was next to you, his poetry disappeared.

He felt as though he wasn’t, and would never be, any of those things. He felt more in tune to the dull, shoddy grayscale of the cityscape with only the occasional glimmer of light to briefly dazzle one from afar.

You called bullshit one day, and told him so.

He froze, unsure of how to respond to the words that seamlessly spilled from your lips faintly splattered with seafoam green acrylic paint. You spoke your truth confidently, and plain as day like it was a well known fact – just like the sky was blue and he was once upon a time the Winter Soldier – and not something that only a few people could agree on.

You felt the hesitation blossom in the air. Even with your back facing him, body and soul focused on your painting, you _knew_ _anyway_. The space between you had shifted to accommodate the budding tension and the feelings that always arose when you spoke so candidly and kindly and truthfully. Sometimes . . . sometimes you _almost_ convinced Bucky Barnes that he had indeed, hung the stars in the sky above the both of you.

Around you, he felt like he hadn’t always been a mass murderer or a complete catastrophe. At the very most . . . he could pretend like it was lifetimes away, even for a little while. You made him feel _awake_ and _comfortable_ and dare he say _safe_ , sometimes. Normal, even. Other times you made him feel like the person he used to be, no matter how rare and fleeting those moments came to be.

It gave him hope.

You, on the other hand, were surprised Steve hadn’t made a single joke about trying to move you into the Tower already, given how much time you spent there. You knew he poked fun about you being an Honorary Member, though. Responses weren’t always _easy_ with that possible weight hovering over your shoulders (not that you would go into the _field_ or anything. _Hell no_. More like . . . an in-stay family friend, of sorts), but you assumed one day you may just realize how Atlas felt just yet, by being _there_ for everyone.

“You’re too good to me, doll,” he said, voice quiet. Full of _adoration_. He came up behind you; his hands, flesh and metal alike, rested on your shoulders before they ran down your back and wrapped around your waist. His head found a place on a hunched shoulder and you relaxed into the comfort he always brought you. He made you feel safe.

Sunlight fell in past the open curtains and illuminated your face, brow slightly furrowed while you touched up on details and contrast – you looked ethereal. Holy. Gilded in features that had divine intervention written all over them. The only real sign he’d ever witnessed that maybe there really _was_ a god and it really _d_ _id_ exist.

That’s when he saw it out of the corner of his eye, peeking out from under your sketchbook on the coffee table behind your easel.

“Is that -” he began, pulling the loose sheet of charcoal paper and holding it up to the light. **“Is that me? Did you** _ **draw**_ **me?”**

His voice was raw, breath hitched and his lungs constricted. The ghost of a smile began to thrive on his face like the kiss of dawn after the longest night of the year.

Your head snapped up, and this time _you_ froze.

“I . . . yeah,” you said slowly. Carefully. You didn’t know what to _say_. “I wasn’t ready to show you yet. I . . . wasn’t sure if you would want me to . . . do _that_.”

His eyes began to widen and a million things shot through his mind, all of them a jumble of sounds and phrases and he’s – well he was speechless, really.

You picked up on the lack of words, the lack of reassurance and you’re pretty sure you just _blew it_ for a _while_.

You’re also sure you’re about to die of horrifying embarrassment.

It registered for him, then, while he studied the portrait again, how you always meant what you said. It took seeing himself through _your_ eyes to begin to grasp that you really _were_ being honest; you meant _everything_. And he meant everything to _you_.

He knew the drawing wasn’t _perfect_ , but he was sure that was the _point_. You were always working hidden meanings into your artwork, he remembered.

You didn’t use realism as your stylistic choice just for _anyone_ , after all.

“I love it,” he says over you, still rambling about how sorry you were, how much you didn’t realize you should have asked first and you should have known that, you realized but -

“You – you _do_?”

He smiled then, and you swore to all that is still good and holy in this world that Bucky Barnes was a masterpiece carved from the rarest type of marble. A timeless painting that could rival _The Creation of Adam_ in Vatican City.

 

“I do,” he confirmed, coming closer to you. “Know what else I love?”

 

“Dare I ask?” your paintbrush found the water glass, your feet found the floor. Your body found it’s place in his arms.

 

You felt a smile of your own match his as he leaned in close. He says that it’ll always be _you_.


End file.
